


Thief Of Dale

by Polar_Attraction



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - No Smaug, Angst, BAMF Sigrid, Details of Theft, Drama, Dubious Morality, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Mama's named Astrid, Mild Sigrid/Apples, Slow To Update, Thief Sigrid, hopefully they are mild, the dubious ethics of thieving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-18 16:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3576462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polar_Attraction/pseuds/Polar_Attraction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't remember the mob lining the streets, torches bright and filling the sky with smoke, their leader insisting her grandfather be dethroned. She doesn't remember that he put up a fight, but her father took one look at the mob and then glanced at his wife and two children. But she knows that he saved them all by giving up his claim to the throne.</p><p>And she knows that her ‘earnings’ save Bain from having sunken eyes and the family from hearing Tilda's whine. That the group of the poor (ten families) might be dead without her.</p><p>So even if she can't remember it, she really doesn't care what it was she stole first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Why She Steals

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Even The Stars, They Burn (On Hiatus)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3535169) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> So, I saw Thief!BAMF!Sigrid and I said:
> 
> YES.
> 
> Let me try that.

She doesn't remember the night her life was ripped from under her feet.

She doesn't remember the mob, torches bright, filling the sky with smoke; the leader insisting her grandfather be de-throned.

_**“Your greed will be the death of Dale!”** _

_**“I am greedy? What that says of you lot!”** _

She doesn't remember that while her grandfather put up a fight, her father took one look at the mob and thought of his family.

_**“I renounce my claim to the throne, on the condition that you leave me and my family be.** _

_**One man snarled at her Da and took a step forward, making as if to strike him, but the leader quickly put out a hand and snapped, “stop it, Hans. It's a reasonable request.”** _

_**He turned back to the prince, considering for only a moment. “We agree. You and your wife have not been as hard as your father. Leave here immediately, for I cannot command everyone here, and I will not turn this people against itself.”** _

_**Her Da nodded and put a arm around her Ma, guiding her and their young children away from their home.** _

She doesn't remember her grandfather being dragged away, unconscious, while her father bore a black eye and turned the other cheek.

**_He'd do anything for his wife and two children._ **

She doesn't know of her mother's tears, as she turned Sigrid and Bain so they couldn't see what was happening.

She truly doesn't remember.

—•—

She doesn't remember her grandfather's death; but that doesn't mean she can't be mad about it. Whenever she asks what led to it, her mother tells her he got in a fight. And then she goes quite.

Sigrid is sure someone, someone too lost over the past to see anything but his greed, stabbed him specifically.

_**“Goodbye grandpa,” Sigrid says, tears stinging her young eyes.** _

She doesn't remember how her mother looked a bit too blank, how Bain gasped when he took the man's hand.

**_“Grandpa, you're cold.”_ **

She'll never forgive who did it, though.

_**When the children are out of earshot, just having said their goodbyes, Bard leans down to whisper angrily in his father's ear, “why did you do that?** _

**_“It'll be better for your wife and children once I'm gone,” he whispered back. Bard turns away, hands clasped behind his back, tears hot in his eyes_ **

**_“If I'm wrong you can say ‘I told you so’ in the next life.”_ **

**_And Bard never gets to._ **

She hates not remembering it. She remembers his smile, his laugh, the kisses he left on her forehead; but not his passing, and it hurts.

What hurts worse is the fact that he never got to see Tilda.

—•—

She doesn't remember what it was.

**_Her mother's sunken eyes are at the forefront of her mind as she slips her hand into the man's coat pocket. Her fingers close around it. Her heart thumps too fast. She pulls back her hand, too slowly. His coat catches on her hand, and white-hot fear fills her._ **

_**Then the man is past her, shoving away, and she finds a small, silver brooch in her palm; inlaid with the bluest gems she had ever seen. A glance around tells her no one saw.** _

_**She pockets it.** _

She barely remembers her preparation for selling it.

_**She's been sitting on the corner for a while now, eating an apple (she'd waited until it was truly crowded and the shopkeeper was tending to the person who wanted grapes. More white-hot fear, more strange energy). She knew she didn't look like someone who would own such a fine brooch, so she was watching the different jewelry shops, carefully tracking who went where.** _

_**“That one,” she said to herself.** _

_**She pushed her treat into her pouch and retrieving the brooch. She pulled a strip of cloth off of her dress tunic and bound her hair; updos made her look older. She rubbed her hand against the packed dirt, then smeared it on the brooch, taking care to include the cracks. She shined it. Satisfied with the worn look, she made her way to the last stall on the street.** _

She does remember the money.

**_The shopkeeper barely glances at her before handing over the fifteen gold pieces._ **

The look on Bain's face when she gave him her leftover of the apple. The _stolen_ apple.

**_“It's so sweet,” he muttered, and his eyes didn't really focus. He took another bite, and a little bit of juice spilled over his lip. He quickly licked it away._ **

She remembered that her mother made her write her experience down, write down how guilty she felt.

**_“Never do it again!” Her mother commands, and Sigrid is silent._ **

She knows she felt guilt; but perhaps not as much as she should have.

**_The look in her mother's eyes when she hands back the parchment is . . . strange._ **

She remembers writing down why she did it, and how she knew they could afford a little bit more food.

**_Her Da puts his head in his hands when he reads it._ **

She knows that after that, her parents keep as much money on the side as they can afford (for bail) and don't question when she comes home (late). She knows that her ‘earnings’ save Bain from having sunken eyes and the family from hearing Tilda's whine; she knows that Rúk's father found the gold by the fireplace, and the giant roast that appeared magically to save the small neighbourhood of poor in winter was from the King's very kitchens; that it was very heavy and horrible to sneak around with.

So she really doesn't care what it was she stole first. She does not steal for the sake of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo . . . yeah. I'm really nervous about publishing this, since it will be my first multi-chapter fic on Ao3. It's un-beta'd, but I've been re-reading it a lot.
> 
> Most chapters won't be in this format, and there will most likely be long pauses between releases . . . and I have no idea if I'll be successful at portraying Sigrid the way I want to (BAMF). But please surrport and criticize me.
> 
> Also, I'm calling the city Dale. Using the other name just seemed wrong. I'm changing it so that her grandfather isn't her canonical one, he's an OC—a kind but easily greedy OC. Feel free to complain.


	2. To Be A Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a sausage-load of foreshadowing and Sigrid's life is mostly normal . . . ehehe, I'm afraid Sigrid is OOC? And that my portrayal of her life is completely unrealistic? My beta doesn't think so, but it would be nice if you kept a look-out for that. And I feel like this needs a key.
> 
> Bold and Italics = flashbacks
> 
> 'Single quotes' and Italics = POV's thoughts
> 
> Italics = writing or emphasis. (I tried really hard not to make that confusing)
> 
> And, as usual, "double quotes" = speaking.

When Bain was seven, his mother took him aside to tell him thieving was wrong. At first he was confused, because there was no way Sigrid had gotten the apple by buying it.

Sigrid was good, and the apple was good. Where did _wrong_ fit into that equation?

Fortunately, his mother was well-equipped for such a predicament and explained that while the cause and outcome were good, the _means_ were not ideal. She told him what Sigrid's was doing and the consequences of her actions, whether she was caught or not.

The list was thorough.

And yet, there was one she hadn't mentioned. One she couldn't have known; one Sigrid was not aware of, and they did their best to hide from her.

For two years, they tried to ignore the fact that they _missed_ her.

His parents always knew how bad it was, (they tried to convince her to stop; to no avail). But Bain didn't realize exactly how deeply it affected everyone until he heard a gasp of “Tilda of Dale!”

He turned to find his mother staring in shock and horror at his little sister, who looked back with a confused look.

“What is it?” the five-year-old asked.

“Did you just take something from my pouch?”

“Yes.”

“You know that's not allowed! Put it back this instant!”

Tilda now looked guilty, and her bottom lip jutted out. “B-but that's what Sigrid would do!” she burst out.

Their Ma's shock intensified. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked, bewildered, “Sigrid would never disobey me.”

“But she takes things that aren't hers!” Tilda insisted. “And maybe if I act like her, she'll want to be my friend!”

It took a moment for her words to sink in, and their mother's face crumbled. “Oh Tilda,” she murmured, “of course Sigrid wants to be your friend.”

“But she's never around!” the little girl whined.

Never around? His Ma and little sister had an hour a day with her. He and his father wouldn't see her for days or weeks.

“How can she even know she likes me?”

—•—

Stifling a yawn, the grey-eyed girl folded her blanket and grabbed her worn pouch. She tiptoed to Tilda; the soft child was drooling a little, and when Sigrid touched her cheek, she closed her mouth. She checked to make sure Bain was asleep—another touch to the cheek—and slipped past her parent's mattress (that she was surprised her little siblings hadn't snuck onto again). She opened the door, and, with one last glance at her sleeping family, stepped out.

She paused to chase away the last vines of sleep, stretching and shaking out her limbs. The morning air sent a shiver down her back as she threw her arms above her head; the sky was a clear, dark blue, pressing down and enveloping her in night.

She took a moment to relish it before she headed into the nearly glowing city.

It was _long_ before the market opened, but there were still a few shop-keepers that were awake. She chose a fairly empty street, studied the buildings attached to the stalls, and chose a stone house.

The alleyway behind the house was in surprisingly good condition. She frowned, worried; but a quick glance at the wall lent a small smile to her mouth. The wall was still very uneven.

It would be fine.

The thief wrapped herself in the dark cloak and scaled the wall with ease. Getting into places others couldn't, not leaving a trace; how else would she do it? There were very few pick-pockets in the city, and even fewer thieves, but she was still a little shocked to be the only one who noticed that walls hidden from view weren't tended well.

She had two coins in her pouch when she stepped back into a path. Just enough pay for a fish—not enough to be missed.

There were more merchants awake on this street, and with a frown, Sigrid turned away—and came face-to-face with a _Wanted_ board.

She took a step back to see if they had changed anything. Dale was very prosperous under it's new rulers, and the head of security (was it Hans?) made sure descriptions were up-to-date.

At the top of the board was Dale's Shadow; there was very little to be recognized of their face, but what there was wasn't promising. A sharp chin and lop-sided grin. If the other's weren't so true to life, Sigrid wouldn't believe it. Demonizing a murderer was nothing new. She looked over the board.

There were murderers (they still hadn't caught who killed the corrupt baker) thieves (there was one for a thief who stole nothing but gold), muggers (they liked to form packs and confront or even hurt people; they were _not_ thieves, don't you dare, thieves have honor! The Shadow doesn't count), debtors (Rúk's father was up there, she'd have to fix that), runaways (a little girl most likely found last night), and a traitor (an actual traitor, not her grandfather) scattered over the board. Sigrid leaned forward to rip off her brother's, as he wasn't wanted anymore—and then her fingers curved back. Let all three cities know Bain, rightful crown prince of Dale, was more skilled with a bow and arrow than anyone else nine years of age! He'd made the shot to the man's knee from a _longbow_.

Not that they knew he did it on purpose. He'd been a good enough actor for them to think it was an accident. But here was his description; proud black letters against parchment, stating he'd hurt a man for offending his mother.

With a small smile, the brunette turned to look away, but something caught her eye.

Rightmost was a faded description, hanging only by one nail; she squinted, and her eyes widened.

 _Dark brown hair, tall, and middle-aged. Dimples_ (how had she forgotten?) _, smiles often—_

Sigrid ripped the paper away from the board with trembling hands. She'd have taken this years ago if she knew it was there! It was just a description, but it painted a picture with words that she'd been _so afraid_ to lose.

_**He throws back his head and laughs, catching the embarrassed child off guard. When he finally stops laughing, he reaches out to ruffle her hair.** _

_**“Oh, Sigs,” he says, “don't worry, your grandmother did much worse in her time. I was half expecting you to say that you'd bitten off his toes!”** _

She slid it carefully into her pouch. After a moment, she looked up at the board again.

Next to her grandfather's nail and down a little was a very old one indeed, from when her grandfather was a child, and it showcased less realism. It described a small, but very pointy figure who wielded a knife and grinned often. Beneath the words the _Ghost ~~Killer~~_ was scribbled _a starving child turned thief_. The sign stood on all _Wanted_ boards, as a reminder to not act on assumptions.

Then there was the little poster, down at the bottom of the board. She stared at it, wishing it away.

_Unknown Thief. We are unsure how they get in places, and there are rarely signs of entry. They wear a dark cloak and are short._

She turned away. _‘Well, that's as frank as it gets. My specialty is getting in places others can't.’_

**_“And that's how I knew it was you,” Bard said, tapping her lightly on the nose. “Because Bain and Tilda would have left something for me to find on the roof. But you?_ **

**_“You get into the most unexpected and troubling places. It's why I don't stay up late waiting for you anymore, because you can get out just as easily.”_ **

A smile tugged at her lips briefly, and she stepped away from the board. A quick trip home would ensure the safety of the coins, a bite of food, and a smile to her father before they both left for the day.

—•—

Her next stop was the market.

Despite how Sigrid felt most comfortable in her cloak, as a thief, she was mostly a pick-pocket. And if there was one thing she had learned in her two years, it was that income varied. Wildly.

It was not one of the better days.

She abandoned her ‘shift’ halfway through, and instead took an apple. She hid in a dark alley as she devoured it, savouring every bite of her treat, but not long enough for it to survive past five minutes. She even ate the core. And yes, she licked her fingers clean.

With a happy sigh, she leaned against the building and contemplated the rest of her day. She'd usually work another ‘shift’ after her hour of helping her mother at the shop, (her alibi was that she was there all day, and no one questioned. Tilda was supposedly too young to mix herbs), then take an hour to talk to Hans, Rúk, William, Lilly, Marta, or Kirstin.

But while she might visit the market again today, she was no longer comfortable in the environment. What she was comfortable with was her evening job; She usually studied a building, explored the city, found a target, or stole into her house of choice and took something valuable. And even though it was rare that everything went perfectly, it was the most controllable part of her job.

She pondered this for a while, wondering if she could change her schedule. Pick-pocketing wouldn't do her family any good if she got caught; and if she was uncomfortable with it the chances skyrocketed.

But sometimes she found enough money here for bigger things: like the mattress. So she shook her head at herself. No, she would continue to be a pick-pocket.

She just hoped she didn't get her hand cut off for that decision.

—•—

One thing she always did that helped her to feel comfortable was study. For days before she stole into a stone house and took something _really_ valuable, she'd study it. She'd time the guards (both inside and out) as they passed by, chisel out hand-holds, and gather through word-of-mouth where her target was.

Sigrid waited, back to the wall of her target house, cloak hiding her form completely. The pale stone walls above her reflected the sunset just as well as they did the moon; they all but glowed, like some beautiful porcelain terror that reminded the rest of the world how filthy it was.

At the steady foot-fall from above, she pulled away from the wall, checked around again, and grabbed her starting holds.

With practiced, sure grip, she moved her hands and feet; she had to shift often, finding a sure grip before continuing with swift movements. Within half a minute, she was most of the way to the window.

Ideally, she'd find the bedroom where they kept the jewels to be a few feet down the hall, the lock easy to pick, the room empty, and be out before thirty minutes were up. If so, maybe she'd catch her Da before he collapsed on the one mattress they had in exhaustion . . . she shook the thought from her head, because her evening jobs were rarely that easy.

She reached the opening. And with a simple swing of her legs, she was in the building. _‘I'm really wondering why more thieves don't climb’._

The hall was very long, and the doors were hidden from view by indents. She caught her breath as there was a flicker around the corner at the far end; then she realized it was just the guard turning down the next hall. She let out a sigh of relief.

She moved quickly; she'd been spotted a few times before, and it hadn't been forgiving. Her cloak was a necessary disguise, but it also gave away her occupation faster than if she was holding stolen goods. Thus, she had to act fast.

The hall wasn't bare; there were several chest and cupboards lining the walls, each ornately designed. Just to make sure there wasn't anything valuable, she picked the lock on the nearest chest and found it was empty. She left the lock open.

The thief continued down the hall and discovered the fifth alcove. She sighed in relief as she looked at the decorative door. She'd be very surprised if it wasn't the master suit; her intel had been correct, fifth alcove it was. She pressed her ear to it, and heard nothing.

The master suite, as expected, had the third best lock in the house (the safe and front door usually were first and foremost). She spent a good three minutes on it, and was considering waiting out the next guard in the chest when she changed the angle and it clicked. With a deep breath, she slowly opened the door. It was completely dark inside, without window or candles, but she'd come prepared. She pulled a small candle from her pouch, then a match; then she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

The ceiling was far above her head, arching into a dome. Her heart beat fast as she realized that there was detailing on the ceiling, beautiful, tiny pictures that shaped a bigger one, that must have been etched with the finest chisel she'd ever heard of.

The design wasn't floral, or anything she'd recognize from life; the swirls painted a fantasy. A creature with a extremely long nose, huge ears, and tusks; it was in the vague shape of a horse, but with stubbier legs.

“Wow . . .” she whispered, because the artist had created the image of the animal from nothing more than chisel and time.

**_“Men may make things pretty, Sigs, but the halls of Man shall never know the beauty of Erebor. They chisel with diamonds, they make the finest artwork you have ever seen on one gem on a necklace of thousands like it.””_ **

**_Her eyes were wide. “There's no way that can be true!”_ **

**_Her grandfather nodded solemnly. “And there is more. They put their most beautiful gem on display, for all to see and wonder at: the Arkenstone.”_ **

“The halls of man shall never know the beauty of Erebor . . .” she whispered to herself.

**_“I have never seen anything I could covet more than that stone.”_ **

If these were the halls of Men when she could barely see them, what were those necklaces like? The Queen's bedroom? And oh . . .

What was the Arkenstone like?

She shook herself from her thoughts and looked around for what she wanted to sell. She found it in a chest with a good enough lock she nearly broke her pick. It finally gave, and she threw open the chest look at the jewelry that would feed her family.

Her eyes widened as she took in _knives_.

The chest was full to the brim with them, and each of them was detailed heavily—even the sheaths! The hilts were made of gold and encrusted with gems, and yes, on each of the gems was exquisite detailing.

The thief stared, mouth hanging open. This was so much more than jewelry. Each of those knives was worth a fortune!

What were they doing here?

More importantly, there's no way this treasure would be guarded by such pathetic security. The door should have had a standing guard, if not fifty, and they would have ways to keep climbers out. What was _she_ doing here?

Were they playing with her?

They could have infiltrated her system, purposefully set this up, and be snickering outside the door that very instant. If that was the case, how was she going to get out?

She couldn't.

Sigrid took a deep breath. Even if they hadn't set it up for her, but for the Thief of Dale (the one who stole nothing but things with gold) they were going to catch her. The web would be too tight.

She took another calming breath. Maybe, if they were overestimating her, she could figure out something to her advantage. She picked a more practical knife, one with less jewels, and checked the blade . . . it was made of jewels. She put it back in the sheath. After repeating a few times, she found one blade that wasn't practically made of gems. It was sturdy, and the silver hilt wasn't really decorated. Then she grabbed a rather expensive-looking knife, just in case she got out (though she had no idea where she could sell it for the correct price).

She stayed there for a while, thinking her plan through again and again. She hated it more and more, but could think of nothing else.

Once she was ready, the thief stood and walked to the door. There was no sound from the other side.

The door protested loudly as she threw it open and jumped back into the darkness.

There was nothing.

Moving carefully, she stepped into the doorway, and there was still nothing.

A few more feet.

Silence.

Sigrid stared down the hallway with incredulous eyes. _‘Really? That little freak-out was for nothing? They really have pathetic security?’_

And so Sigrid easily slipped down the hall and was just heading for the balcony when she heard a shout from her immediate left.

Pathetic security was still security.

She dodged his first strike.

**_Her teacher isn't gentle, he's brutally honest when it comes to flaws and doesn't go easy on anyone._ **

The second one came too fast.

**_He wouldn't hit them after the first blow landed. He wasn't gonna beat up a little kid just because they hadn't moved in time._ **

She cried out as she dodged a little too late, the blade cutting just below her shoulder. His eyes went wide, and it gave her a moment to compose herself before he pulled back for another swing. She utilized the time to shoot forward and jab at his funny bone.

She hit home.

He dropped the sword with a cry, and she struck her elbow against his head as hard as she could. He dropped.

She felt as if her skin was on fire. She'd never actually fought anyone before, and she couldn't say she wanted a repeat. The energy from the fight still poured into her. She needed to run; get away from here as soon as possible, to hide, to—

She could hear the guards coming.

 _‘Home,’_ she thought numbly, _‘I need to get home. Need to make sure they have food tomorrow . . .’_ She slipped over the balcony, intending to be careful, but going too quickly.

She made it two feet before her wounded arm gave out.

—•—

When Sigrid got home, her arm was much worse, the moon had gone across the sky, and she was breathing hard from running the moment her feet were under her. With a soft sigh, the brunet pushed open the (wooden) door; her mother and father were asleep, and so was Tilda. You could never tell with Bain.

She gently placed her bag of earnings (it wasn't nearly enough to be the real value of the knife) next to her Ma, then went to her corner. She pulled out her healing supplies and pulled up her sleeve. It didn't _look_ infected, but she hadn't had time for salve.

“Sigrid, what is that?” her mother asked, lighting another candle.

Sigrid started, then, “Sorry, Ma, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Her mother shook her head. “No, it’s fine. I think I'd rather be awake.” Astrid stood and walked to her daughter. She had a look in her eyes Sigrid had rarely seen before, one she wore when someone threatened her children “Let me take care of that.”

Sigrid simply nodded. Alarm-bells of _‘Do not cross her! Do not cross her!’_ were ringing through her mind.

“How did you get it?” her Ma asked, long, curly brown hair reflecting the candle-light like a well-cut gem as she sat beside her daughter.

The thief took a deep breath and began. The elder worked silently as Sigrid told the story. The younger would be lying if she said the water and salve didn't hurt, but it did feel better with a bandage.

“Sigrid, do you really think it's worth it?”

The daughter looked up in surprise. Her grey-eyed mother was focused on wrapping the wound, but there was a hard look on her face.

“What's worth it?” she finally asked.

Her mother sighed softly, then, “We live better than we did, it's true, and we're all glad of it. But is it worth this? Cuts, bruised ribs, nearly getting caught and constantly living in fear? Are Bain and Tilda's smiles worth their innocence?”

The last line had Sigrid doing a double-take. “Innocence? I've been careful—”

“Bain knew since you gave him the first apple,” her mother said flatly. She tied up the bandage, then moved to sit closer to her daughter. “And yesterday, I discovered that our five-year-old has sticky fingers.”

Sigrid's eyes went wide at that. “Tilda stole something?”

Her mother nodded with a sigh. “It was from me, but Sigrid, what if she grows up thinking it's alright? What if she gets her hand cut off?”

A sharp chill went through the younger at the thought. Throughout all their previous discussions, nothing quite this drastic had ever come to mind. There was silence. Hope started to creep across her mother's face.

“It has to be worth it,” Sigrid finally whispered fiercely, and her mother's face fell.

The elder met the steel and fire in her daughter's gaze with her own. “What makes you say that?”

“It has to be,” Sigrid repeated, and turned to look at her family: her father, turned towards the back door, her brother, unconscious but with his eyes open, Tilda, sleeping next to Bain, snoring softly. “My earnings are what keep us afloat. Without them, someone here would starve. So I can't think about if it's worth it, I can't think about wrong or right; all I can let myself think about is how they lord those stone buildings over the rest of the world, how they are rich and very few of us are poor.”

Sigrid turned to her mother, the fire there burning brighter with each word. Burning her from the inside. “Ma, it has to be worth it, because the fact that you're all alive is _right_.”

Astrid sighed and took the hand closest to her. “But Sigrid,” she said gently, as gently as she could, and Sigrid knew it was the voice she used when she had to be horribly blunt, “If they catch you, that will leave us without money. You really think they'll hire the father of a thief?”

Sigrid let her eyes fall closed. Yes, of course she'd thought about it. Just . . . not in that way. Not in such dramatic words. Slowly, she turned to look at her family again. Both ways, they starved.

_‘But today is the closest I've ever gotten to being caught, and here I am; no one knows my face. I'm still free.’_

“I'll tone it down a little,” Sigrid promised. “But I won't stop.”

Her mother threw her hands in the air, desperation fueling her action. “And what does that mean? That you'll steal from one person in the lower class until they join us in a wooden house?”

Sigrid shook her head. “It means I'll stop pick-pocketing.”

For a second, Astrid's expression didn't change; then she looked confused, and in the next moment, Sigrid saw a side of her mother she'd never seen before. Her eyes held a glint of surprised triumph.

“Does that mean you'll join us for breakfast?” she whispered.

“Well, dinner too—” Sigrid started, but was interrupted as her mother squealed and threw herself at the thief.

“Gotcha!” she crowed. “I'm holding you to it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO MUCH FORESHADOWING. Like, SOOO MUUUUUCH. If anything confused you, I'll try to fix the problem, answer you, or not respond and this blatantly tell you the answer is spoiler-ey.
> 
> And yes; Bain sleeps with his eyes open. It might go away when he grows up a little. I'm not sure at this point.


End file.
